


Better Late Than Never

by charliescastiel



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coming Out, Gay Richie Tozier, Internalized Homophobia, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Stanley Uris Lives, because I said so, but instead richie just has a whole mid-life crisis, lots of introspection, no the fortune cookie baby isn't in it, ooc storytelling you have been warned, pennywise the homophobic clown, this was supposed to be short and light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24843565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charliescastiel/pseuds/charliescastiel
Summary: a re-write of the Jane of the Orient scene where Richie kinda sorta accidentally comes out to spite a clown and Stan is late
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 7
Kudos: 178





	Better Late Than Never

**Author's Note:**

> I started this disaster six months ago and finally kicked my ass into gear to finish it. I know this is written terribly out-of-character for everyone but I tried so you're welcome. There's probably a bunch of typos.
> 
> Inspired by a conversation with my good pal Sam, and dedicated to him.

Richie approaches Bev and Ben where they stand close to each other. Clearly, they are having a moment so naturally, he interrupts.

“Wow, you two look amazing. What the fuck happened to me?”

Bev and Ben smile at him and for the first time since Mike called him, he feels steady. Like maybe if he’s not alone in this, he’ll make it out the other side. Bev links her arms through both of theirs and they walk inside. Richie’s glad he ran into them outside; he thinks if he had to go in alone, he would have booked it and been back in LA by the morning. 

He bangs the gong, obviously. It was right there. What else was he gonna do?

“This meeting of the Losers club has officially begun.”

“Look at these guys.” Eddie smiles. It falters when he catches Richie’s eye, or he thinks it might. Maybe he’s reading too much into it. Too much into what? There’s nothing to read into. A myriad of thoughts begin to surface the longer he holds Eddie’s gaze, so he clears his throat and moves towards the table.

Eddie is as beautiful as he always was, though his face is less soft, more angular. His frown lines make Richie internally laugh, because of course he’s probably spent the last twenty-two years of his life being permanently disgruntled by everything.

“Shall we sit?” He suggests, suppressing this dangerous train of thought. It’s like no time has passed, the easy way his heart skips a beat every time Eddie is near.

And maybe he’s reading into it too much again when Eddie subtly makes his way towards the seat next to Richie and then moves over one at the last second, leaving an empty chair between them. It leaves an unanticipated hurt, Eddie _always_ sits next to Richie, it’s like an unspoken rule. Every summer’s afternoon spent at the quarry, at the clubhouse, at the movie theatre. Every sleepover they slept next to each other, holding hands in the dark. Every class they were side by side, passing notes instead of taking them. At graduation, at birthdays, even at the blood oath. Richie couldn’t remember a moment before he was eighteen when Eddie wasn’t by his side. He looks across at Eddie now, his face familiar even with age, and the distance between them feels like miles.

They order drinks and Richie makes his a double because Eddie just laughed loudly at something Bill said and Richie feels a sharp, unexpected pang of jealously. He hasn’t felt jealously like this in a long, long time. And the last time he did, he’s pretty sure it was for a very similar reason. It all floods back in a blink; how unbearably jealous Richie would get whenever Eddie would laugh at someone else’s joke, how he would blush at someone else’s compliment, how he would get flustered at someone else’s touch. It drove Richie mad.

At one point, Richie was convinced that each and every one of the Loser’s was as in love with Eddie as he was, because how could they not be? It made him equal parts possessive and gutted, because Eddie was _his_ , except he never would be. Of that, Richie was always certain.

It always manifested itself in horrible ways too, and Richie saw it happening, but he couldn’t stop himself from doing it. The passive aggressive comments about the joke not being funny even though it was probably funnier than anything he’d said that day; complimenting Eddie excessively so he would blush even harder as if it was some dumb competition; throwing an arm around Eddie’s shoulder and pulling him in close as if to claim Eddie entirely.

Back in the restaurant, Richie realises he’s been pretty much glaring at Bill this whole time, so he laughs too loudly at something Bev says and grabs his drink off the platter as the waitress passes.

Eddie laughs at something Bill says again and Richie knows it all friendly, knows whatever Bill said was funny, knows it’s been a really really long time since they’ve all seen each other, but it’s like a compulsion when he downs his sake and interrupts loudly: “so wait Eddie you got married?”

There’s no lead up to the question, in fact he’s pretty sure Bev and Ben were talking about how Derry seemed to live outside the influence of both any modern fashion and architecture trends. It’s silent for a beat.

Then, “why’s it so fucking funny, dickwad?” Eddie is as defensive as he always was and Richie revels in the familiarity of it all. Revels in all of Eddie’s attention on him.

“What, to like, a woman?” He could never stop pushing buttons Eddie’s buttons, because it was always so damn easy.

“Fuck you bro.” Eddie almost yells with a furrowed brow, already wound up exactly the way Richie wants.

“Fuck you!” And Richie relishes in Eddie’s anger because after all this time, it’s still so damn easy. And he’s still so cute when he’s mad. Eddie’s glare just makes Richie grin harder, and he’s caught in it like his own version of the deadlights.

“Alright, what about you trashmouth, are you married?” Bill asks, stepping easily back into his role as mediator.

“There’s no way Richie’s married.” Bev says with a fond humour but also with absolute certainty and Richie finds that he’s truly missed her all these years.

“No, I got married.”

“Richie, I don’t believe it.”

“When?” Eddie says and it’s physically painful to not read into the way Eddie speaks, like he’s upset about it. Because he’s not. Because Eddie actually _is_ married.

“Did you not hear this?”

“No.”

“Oh, you didn’t know I got married?”

“No.”

“Yeah, me and your mom are very happy.”

“He totally fell for it!”

“Fuck you.”

“She’s very sweet. Sometimes she’ll put her arm around me and she’ll whisper to me, she’ll go beesoocoobafa mesawookie.”

“We all get it. My mum was a great big fat person. Hilarious. Hysterical.”

Richie knows the mom jokes aren’t funny, fat jokes aren’t funny, they never were funny, but the way Eddie continues to glare at him even after all the conversations have broken off into pairs again keeps the fire in Richie’s heart burning, low and intense. Richie blows him a kiss for good measure, and now he’s blushing furiously. Two for one.

The main courses arrive, and Richie throws an arm around the empty chair between himself and Eddie without thought, like his body just yearns to be closer to him.

Because he’s feeling like a self-destructive asshole, Richie decides to once again interrupt the conversation he wasn’t listening to by calling Ben hot. It’s true, and it’s not at all a test designed to pry some kind of reaction from Eddie.

It works, but not the way he expected. Eddie straight up, unsubtly checks Ben out, then nods his approval like it’s something he hadn’t considered yet but is now very much into. Richie can’t decide whether his plan backfired or worked like a charm; the spike of envy warring with the thread of evidence that suggests Eddie might swing his way too.

“Leave him alone, you’re embarrassing him.” Bev says, always his knight in shining armour. 

“Okay, okay. Alright, please. Is Stanley coming or what?” Ben asks. 

The table falls silent and the Loser’s look around each other; their minds blank for a moment before memories start tumbling back. One by one, they turn to the chair they’d forgotten was empty.

It’s uncomfortable, remembering the existence of someone who used to mean so much to them; who’s responsible in a large part for building who they are today. The way the memories trickle in one by one until the dam breaks like a tidal wave of nostalgia and suddenly they remember all of it, all at once; the good and the bad. The joy and the pain and the heartbreak.

“No, no, he’s a fucking pussy, he’s not gonna show.” Richie says, to break the silence.

“Fuck you trashmouth.” Stanley says from behind Richie.

Richie jumps in his seat, bumping his knee against the table.

“Stan!” Eddie exclaims.

“Stanley!” Ben adds.

“Stan the man!” Bill completes.

“About damn time. What d’ya get stuck in traffic?” Richie quips, finding his voice again.

Stanley glares and Richie leaps up from his chair and throws his arms around Stan.

“Get off me, asshole.” Stan chokes.

“Not a chance.” Richie squeezes tighter.

Bill and Eddie rise to join the hug, followed by Bev and Ben and Mike.

Richie smiles so hard that a tear slips from his eye. And just like that, it’s 1989 and its summer and they are thirteen again. And they are together. They are home.

He doesn’t really know how it happens, but when they are all seated again Eddie is suddenly right next to him, with Stan in Eddie’s seat. He wants to remark on it, but Eddie has a faint blush on his cheeks and that’s enough for Richie to know it was intentional. That and the fact that Eddie won’t look in his direction.

It’s even harder when Eddie knocks knees with him under the table and Richie feels thirteen again with the way he’s hyperaware of Eddie’s body in relation to his.

Richie wasn’t a particularly touchy-feely person, with the exception of Eddie. But he would fixate on every little touch for hours. Did Eddie’s stomach also flip fifty times over every time their hands brushed? Was every nudge of the shoulder an accident or an excuse to get that little bit closer like it was for Richie? Did Eddie lie awake at night thinking about every playful kick to the shin in the cramped hammock that they both refused to give up, every prod to the side because that’s where he’s most ticklish, every tussle of hair because it’s guaranteed to push his buttons and he’s cute when he’s mad?

The more time passed, the more time he spent thinking about Eddie instead of you know, schoolwork or chores or the other losers.

He thinks back on all the jokes, all the bits and skits about his childhood, his trauma and his sexuality from his earliest material that got rejected and rewritten by his editors and his managers because they were too dark, or too risky, or too distasteful. He thinks about how writing about it made it okay, made it possible to process and he wonders when exactly that went away. Probably when the memories did.

He mourns their loss, then. Wishes for a second that he’d never left Derry, never left Eddie. Maybe if he’d stuck around in this stupid cursed town, he’d be happily married to Eddie in their white picket fence house. Or maybe he’d be in a dead-end job, hating the very heart of himself and keeping it locked away to avoid the wrath of the violently ignorant. But at least he’d know.

“There is something I’m dying to know.” Eddie voice breaks his train of thought, and for a moment he’s afraid Eddie somehow knew exactly what he was thinking about.

Richie looks over at the aged face he’s still familiarising himself with, cataloguing its differences. Eddie won’t meet his eyes, which piques his curiosity.

“I’m an open book, Eddie Spaghetti.” Richie puts down his fork and leans back in his chair.

“Don’t call me that.” Eddie pouts.

Richie smirks.

“Did your girlfriend really make you sign up for masturbaters anonymous?” Eddie continues, with a forced off-handedness.

Bill chokes on his drink for probably the fourth time that night. He’d probably sneeze pure alcohol at this point.

“No. I signed myself up.” Richie deadpans and for a moment, no one knows if he’s serious.

Then Bev laughs too loudly, and Richie cracks up.

“Oh ha ha.”

“Nah. I always hated that joke.” Richie admits, fiddling with the tablecloth. He’s approaching dangerously candid territory.

“Then why’s it in the act?” Eddie pushes. 

“I don’t write my own material.” It feels so good to finally speak it out loud. A weight off his shoulders until the shame starts to creep in.

“I knew it. I fucking knew it.” Eddie says with so much vindication that Richie is suddenly thrown into the image of Eddie sat there watching his stand up, knowing none of the words are his but not knowing how he knows that. Eddie really always has known Richie the most, even when he didn’t remember him at all. Shit. He’s devolving into some kind of gay panic at this point, so he defaults to his favourite coping mechanism: teasing.

“So, you’re a fan of my stand up, hey Eds?” Richie says with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

“If you wrote your own jokes, maybe I would be.”

“You do realise then it would just be full of ‘your mom’ jokes?”

“Don’t-“

“Oh, you walked right into that one. Just like your mom did when-”

“I hate you.” Eddie says, with a long-suffering fondness.

“Nah, you don’t.” Richie throws his arm around him and pulls him in tight, messing up his hair. It’s a bold move but he can’t find it in himself to care. 

He remembers the last time he made the mistake of letting his guard down, of letting these feelings shift and grow, of letting himself be. And then Pennywise came and tore it all down. 

_Dirty little secret._

This memory hits him hard and suddenly he’s right back there, ass on the grass with that fucking clown taunting and wailing as he floated towards him holding onto a cluster of red balloons. He remembers the way his throat closed up around the scream that tried to escape his throat; the way his palms dug into the dirt the harder he scrambled to stand up. He remembers how after that, every time he looked at another boy and _felt_ , his heart would race in terror.

Slowly, as the memories of that summer were altered and erased in favour of new, lighter memories of high school and movie nights and prank wars and school dances; as he grew older but no more mature, as his feelings for Eddie turned away from boyhood crush to _first love_ , Richie started to let go. To embrace the fear and wait for the consequences; but when there were none, only Eddie’s bright smiles and reciprocated touches, he just _felt_.

After he left, as they all did, boots too big for this town, Richie never felt quite right.

He thought it was because he ran away from Derry as soon as he was old enough to go to college. The guilt and the shame of abandoning his home, his friends, his family. Of never looking back and feeling free. Except he didn’t really ever feel free, he felt the opposite. It didn’t take much time at all for all his memories to fade; a few months, a year at the most. Those memories were replaced with a heavy, oppressive weight that tugged at him every so often. It was always there, a shadow in the corner of the room that blended in with the darkness. A glint in the corner of the mirror.

Richie has always felt empty and he could never figure out why. He had money, fame, he had made a career out of his inability to stop talking trash. He had a nice apartment, was adored by his fans. And yet, that feeling persisted. He could never put a name on it, not until he saw Eddie again for the first time in twenty-two years.

A love lost; a secret so deeply repressed that he himself had forgotten it. He doesn’t know what to do with this epiphany, when Eddie is married, and they live across the country from each other and don’t even really know each other anymore, not in any way that counts. He doesn’t know anything that’s happened to Eddie in the past two decades; if he still updates his medication journal at night just before he falls asleep; if he still sulks for hours with folded arms and exasperated puffs after he’s had a bad day; if he still folds his laundry from most to least favourite. Richie desperately wants to know. 

So, Richie baits Eddie into talking about his shitty job and teases him relentlessly, pretending to snooze to the amusement of everyone except Eddie, whose face is comically furious when he exclaims, “what the fuck are _you_ laughing at?!”

Bev proposes a toast, and they clink glasses and down their shots, and they eat and laugh and drink some more. When Richie leans towards Bev to kiss her and she shoves her bite of food in his mouth, Eddie kicks him hard until the table and then it’s Richie who’s snorting rice out of his nose. 

Richie challenges Eddie to an arm-wrestling match ‘for old time’s sake’, as a way to get close to him, just like it always was. When Eddie jokes, “let’s take our shirts off and kiss”, Richie’s stomach falls out of his ass and Eddie slams his hand against the table hard. Richie looks from where his hand is trapped under Eddie’s in a white-knuckle grip, up to Eddie’s eyes. There’s mischief there, but also something else, something like- he pulls his hand from Eddie’s grip, sharp and fast and doesn’t at all see the flash of hurt cross Eddie’s features or feel the heat of his touch linger for minutes afterwards.

After the fourth round of drinks, they break up into little conversations again. Bill, Mike and Stan arguing about how the Annual Derry Fair of 1992 _actually_ happened because no, Stan did _not_ ‘shit his pants’ after a skeleton dropped down on the ghost train. Ben and Bev are leaning in close and Richie has half a mind to just knock their heads together to just get it over with.

“Were any of them yours?” Eddie says, abruptly, quietly. “Your jokes?”

Richie’s smile falls away and he turns to Eddie. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, fighting the instinct to make a shitty joke. Eddie waits, expectant.

“My first few years, yeah. I wrote everything. Before I ‘made it’. Played every night in shitty bars to an audience that’d sooner throw their drink at you then spare you a laugh. I was up until 4am most nights, re-writing failed jokes in a notebook I always kept in my breast pocket.

“One night, I was opening for some up-and-comer, don’t even remember his name now, and there was a talent scout there and he liked my act. Well, he liked me… not my jokes. Said I had potential if I was a little less of a-” Richie cuts himself off, shaking his head. He takes a long pull from his beer.

“Anyway, I signed with him and worked with a ghost writer. Some schmuck who wrote decent jokes but couldn’t deliver them for shit. No charisma, no timing. I think it was more about me being his face, than him being my voice. We tried to work together for the first couple of years of my contract, but it didn’t work. We fought on everything. But we got buzz, good reviews and packed shows, so it worked, and I got famous, I guess. Eventually, there was nothing left of me. Richie Tozier was just a persona.” He laughs, it’s bitter.

“I don’t even know when that happened. Or why I put up with it all this time. Guess that makes me a phoney, huh?” Richie doesn’t look, but he knows the other Losers are listening now, their own conversations faded.

“I knew it wasn’t you. I don’t know how, but I knew.” Eddie says, tone too serious for Richie comfort. Richie cocks an eyebrow. “No, not like that you just- it didn’t sound like your words. There was something off about the delivery- don’t look at me like that. You’re the funniest guy I’ve ever met, seriously… all those jokes about those women you dated, about your girlfriend… I just never bought it.”

He doesn’t elaborate any further. Richie tries not to read into the way he said ‘women’ and ‘girlfriend’, like he knows, like he’s jealous. Richie looks around the table, his cheeks ache from the forced smile plastered on his cheeks. Bill and Mike avoid his gaze, pretending their conversation didn’t fizzle out five minutes ago and Bev hides her face behind her drink. At least she attempts to look guilty.

“Wow Eds, you sound like the New York Times.” Richie jokes, turning back to Eddie. It falls flat.

“It’s just not the real you.” Eddie pushes.

“No, you’re right. It’s because I’m gay.” Richie says. Everyone laughs, like he’s joking, except he’s not.

He’s not. And he just came out to the Losers. They all look to each other, waiting for the “I’m kidding!”, but it doesn’t come. As more seconds pass, the other losers all lock eyes with each other. No one really knows what to say.

“You’re serious?” Bill asks, unable to hide his surprise. Whether at Richie’s honesty or his sexuality, he doesn’t know.

Richie starts to panic, his eyes locked on the piece of paper from the fortune cookie he clutches tightly between his fingers. He feels his breath get caught in his throat. He chokes on it. He can’t take it back; he can’t say anything. His throat feels tight. He’s overly aware of Eddie sat to his left, sees him move from the corner of his eye. He screws his eyes shut.

He feels a hand on his knee, soft and warm and safe. Then Eddie grabs his hand underneath the table and squeezes. Richie exhales.

“Oh Richie.” Bev whispers. Richie looks at her, her eyes filled only with unconditional love and a layer of deep sadness. She comes around the table to embrace him tightly. “I’m proud of you. I love you.” She speaks into his ear and Richie chokes out a sob despite himself. Eddie squeezes his hand again like he wants to remind Richie that he’s still there, even though he can’t find the words.

Bev pulls back and wipes the tear from his cheek.

“Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” Bill asks. He’s genuine, and that almost makes it hurt more.

“Yeah. You should have told us, Richie.” Mike adds.

“Guys-“ Eddie interacts.

Richie knows they mean well, but it hurts. They don’t understand.

“Did you think we wouldn’t accept you?” Ben asks.

Richie looks up. “Yeah, actually. I did.” He aims for nonchalance but there’s an edge to his words that reveal an anxiety that runs deeper than even he knew.

Everyone looks away. He knew he shouldn’t have said anything. He screws up his face and stands up. He goes to leave but Eddie grabs him. Richie’s gaze trials from where Eddie’s hand is coiled tightly around his wrist, up his arm to Eddie’s face. He’s afraid of what he will see.

“Please don’t run from this.” Eddie whispers, tightening his grip.

Richie sits but Eddie doesn’t let go. Nobody says anything. The silence is deafening. He itches to make a joke out of the whole thing but when he looks at each of the other Losers faces to only see compassion, patience and love he knows he owes them more than that. He owes himself more than that. But more so, that he can tell them the truth, share the weight of his secret and it will be okay.

“I- I’ve always been so afraid, you know. Growing up in this small town… with my parents, with Bower’s and his cousin- It’s stupid. I always thought if I buried that shit deep enough, I could pretend I was straight. And then when I left Derry I kind of… forgot. So, I guess it worked. For a while. There was always something nagging at me though. But being back here, seeing E-“ Eddie snaps his head towards Richie, who ruthlessly avoids his questioning gaze and continues. “Seeing all of you… just brought it all back like a fucking freight train. Guess I owe Mike for this gay mid-life crisis. Thanks buddy.”

“So why tell us now?” Mike asks instead of acknowledging the joke.

“Pennywise. He… he knew. He taunted me about my _dirty little secret_ -“ Richie shudders at the memory. “How I’d never want to play truth or dare. I figured if we are gonna face that son of a bitch again, I should tell you before I get outed by a homophobic killer clown. Now he’s got nothin’ on me.”

Everyone chuckles and the tension snaps, a least a little.

“Suddenly all those dick measuring contests are taking on a whole new layer of meaning.” Stan says.

“Oh, you wanna go now?” Richie says, hand on his belt.

“Richie no!”

“Coward. You’d really fight a killer clown before comparing dick sizes?”

“Why are you the way that you are?” Stan sighs.

“Someone in this group has to have a personality.”

“I hate you.” Stan says, without malice. “And I’ve missed you, so fucking much.”

Richie’s comeback dies on his tongue and he smiles. “I’ve missed you too, I’ve missed all of you.”

“I propose a toast, to the Losers.” Bill says warmly.

They clink their glasses and Richie feels ridiculous for the flip his stomach does when his fingers brush Eddie’s ever so slightly. Richie downs his drink.

-

Outside, the temperature has dropped, and Richie’s shoulders hunch a little from the chill. The losers stand in a loose circle as they say their goodbyes as if there aren’t all about to meet up back at the inn in five minutes time.

Richie is halfway to his car when Eddie grabs his arm. Richie startles, heart in his mouth, relaxing when he sees it’s only Eddie because for a fraction of a second, he feared it was Pennywise. And boy, he hasn’t missed that trauma.

Eddie pulls his hand away and folds his arms uncomfortably like it’s the only way he can stop himself from reaching out to Richie.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to say that I’m- I’m proud of you, Rich.”

“Get outta here.” Richie says, desperately fighting the blush he knows is forming on his cheeks. He could always blame it on the cold.

“No. I really am.” Eddie says, so softly that Richie thinks he might throw up again.

Eddie reaches out and pats Richie’s arm. He keeps his hand there, it’s warm even through the fabric.

“I was never as brave as you.” Eddie says, eyes downcast.

“You were _much_ braver, Eds.”

Eddie drops his hand and shoves them in the pockets of his jeans.

“I wish I’d known back then. I should have known.”

“I’m sorry.” Richie says, for lack of anything else to say.

“No. Don’t be. I just-“ He stops, eyes downcast. Richie waits for him to continue, but he doesn’t.

“What?”

“Do you- do you ever regret how your life turned out? Think about how different it could have been?”

“All the time. What’s this about, Eds? Don’t tell me you’re gay too, that would be hilarious.”

Eddie smiles, there’s a bitterness to it and something else Richie can’t read. Something isn’t right, he can always read Eddie. But then again, it’s been over twenty years, so maybe he can’t anymore.

“When did you know?” Eddie asks, instead of answering his question.

Richie smiles, his eyes are filled with nostalgia and longing, glazed over slightly.

“It kind of snuck up on me, to be honest. I started having these- feelings that didn’t make any sense until suddenly one day all these small things just clicked into place. There was one moment, I remember, when I really knew.”

Eddie is holding on so tightly to every word like Richie possesses the answers to all the questions in the universe. Richie always loved the way Eddie listened to him like his stories mattered. Like he was funny and interesting and worth talking to. Sometimes it felt like Eddie was the only one who cared.

“We were twelve, it was the summer before all the fucking clown trauma. I begged you to race me down Oakwood for an hour straight before you finally gave in. I was winning by a mile, but I hit a pothole and fell off my bike real bad. You kept going for a second before you realised I was down and then you rushed over to me so fast that you almost fell off your own bike. Man, you were so worried. You yelled at me so much and called me a fucking stupid dickwad or something, but I didn’t care. Then you pulled all of those supplies from the fanny pack you always carried without fail and you patched up my grazed knee and my palms. I didn’t want you to let go of my hands, ever. I watched you dab that antiseptic with so much care and attention and then I made a stupid joke that wasn’t funny, but you laughed so hard.” Richie huffs a laugh, shaking his head. He pauses then, exhales a long breath, steeling himself. “I remember just thinking that I would do anything for you. Anything to make you laugh like that. To hold your stupid hand forever.”

“I remember that.”

Richie smiles, it’s sad.

“That was when you knew?”

“That I was in love with you? Yeah.” Richie says, like it’s easy. Like it wasn’t the source of all his teenage angst. Like it’s no big deal.

“In- in love with me?” Eddie stutters, like its news to him. How could it possibly be? 

“Keep up, dickwad.”

“For twenty-seven years?”

“Well, twenty-nine, technically.”

“Stop talking, trashmouth.” Eddie says and grabs Richie’s neck, pulling him down and smashing their lips together.

Richie practically squeaks in shock but instantly melts into the kiss. His brain goes immediately offline. Eddie pulls away and Richie is still speechless.

Eddie smirks. “I think this is the longest you’ve ever gone without speaking.”

“Fuck you. I once went three days without talking for a bet in eighth grade, remember. I beat you by a whole two days.”

“The most peaceful three days of my life.” Eddie reminisces.

“You’ll never know peace like that ever again. We have a lot of time to make up for.”

“You know what, I’m okay with that.”

This time it’s Richie who initiates the kiss. He leans down to press his lips firmly on Eddie’s, his hand snaking up to the back of Eddie’s neck to hold him there, his thumb brushing over the apple of his cheek. Eddie’s arm is heavy on Richie’s waist and everything melts away again.

A car honking across the parking lot startles them both and they look towards it like deer caught in headlights.

“Beep beep Richie!” Beverly says with her head stuck out of her car window.

Stan, who’s parked next to her, sticks his head out of the window too to add “yeah! About damn time losers!”

Richie flips him the bird and Stan laughs, honking his car horn and flashing his lights.

He turns back to Eddie, who is blushing almost as much as he is. “Assholes.”

Richie swings his arms, shifting his weight restlessly. Eddie huffs a laugh and then grabs Richie’s hand, intertwining their fingers and squeezing.

“Now what?” Richie asks. “Aren’t you married?”

Eddie winces at that and Richie internally kicks himself. Way to spotlight the metaphorical elephant.

“Not happily. I won’t deny it’s complicated.” Richie shoots him a look. “Okay, very complicated. But we’ll figure it out.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.” And there’s so much certainty in his voice that Richie doesn’t doubt him for a second. “I’m not letting you go. Not now that I finally got you back.”

“Is it too soon to say I love you?”

“Given our history, I think it’s long overdue.” Richie laughs, and his chest feels light, like he’s full off helium and could float away at any second. “I love you too.” Eddie says, and raises their linked hands to press a kiss to the back of Richie’s.

“Then let’s go kill this fucking clown so we can go home.”


End file.
